He decided that he was dying and that as he died he dreamed. He felt no pain. Only triumphant gladness. They had died like men. What did it matter that the story of the Zharkon's double-brain injury was only a glorious dream? What was the difference if the Martians continued to rule the system for a million years?
It made no difference. The song these ragged, filthy slaves had sung in a Concentration camp would be a symphonic background for the final chaotic death-pangs of the Martian culture. The songs of Earth, somehow, had always possessed a kind of deathless quality.
But what an odd dream for a dying mind! He was floating down a dark, dripping hall. Strange lights glowed. Something moved under him, something very solid and real for a dream or for death.
A far-away voice said very softly against his ear, "Sleep, my friend. Rest. Sleep deeply and build up your strength. Get ready for a desperate journey."
And then, dropping into a velvet abyss, he really did sleep. Sometime later, Karl Venard awoke. And really knew he still suffered among the living when he heard a familiarly whining voice shouting: "I been cheated! I prayed—but them stalagmites look awful suspicious to me. You ain't foolin' me, La Crue! I'm in hell!" Larson was evidently very much alive.
Another familiar, but almost forgotten voice answered, "You're raising plenty of it, that's certain."
Venard could hardly believe it. La Crue, alive! The name snapped Venard's consciousness on full like a sudden bright flame. He sat up on a narrow bed. He was in a dry, comfortable spot surrounded by the mores of civilization, though in a chaotic rapidly constructed state. But some distance along a rough, natural underground cavern of vaulted proportions, calcareous water dripped monotonously. From the phosphorescent rock strata he realized he was deeply underground. A deeply buried natural cavern with damp recesses that justified Larson's violent waking reaction.
And La Crue, alive. La Crue had been the physician aboard the war ship Valeron, an old friend from pre-war Academy days. How many others of the Terran Guards were alive who, logically, should be dead? Venard raised up onto his elbows, watched La Crue leave Larson's side and come toward him. He looked ghost-like. Pallid from months spent underground. But his lean body was healthy and vital enough otherwise. His square jaw was smoothly shaven. He grinned broadly at Venard.
"How you feeling, Karl?" He sat down on a flat rock. Below them, Venard could hear an underground river churning. He answered, "La Crue—you're—all three of us are supposed to be dead."
La Crue smiled wryly. "Not every Guardsman who fought that last battle over the Polar Palaces of Mars was killed. I'd say about a thousand escaped to the Martian Underground. Some of them, including myself, were transferred here by Underground space ships."